This chapter is short. The next one will be longer, I promise.
Chapter 6: The Plot Re-thickens
Whistler's bruises were completely gone in less than a week. They always were. Spot had long since given up trying to figure out how his second healed so fast. It was just one of the many mysteries that surrounded the being known as Whistler. Spot went over to Manhattan a few times a week to visit his family, re-aquainting himself with his father and older brother. Whistler would go with him sometimes, to tell Emily a story. It was just after one such visit that the trouble began in earnest.
Whistler and Spot were just coming up to the Brooklyn lodging house when a tall figure stepped out of an alley.
"Well, whaddaya know, it's the King a' Brooklyn," the figure drawled. "And who else next to him but his little storytellin' sidekick. How ya doin', boys?"
"Be a lot better when you skip on back to Queens, Deuce," Spot said. "This is my territory. You got no business here."
Deuce smiled. "Oh, but I'm afraid I do. See, Queens is gettin' too crowded for me an' my guys. I been thinkin' maybe it's time for the King of Brooklyn to step down in favour a' someone a little—" he glanced to the side as he searched for the right word "—bigger."
Whistler spat at Deuce's feet. "Shove off, Deuce. No one wants ye here."
"Make me," came Deuce's reply as he settled himself into a fighter's crouch.
Spot glanced at Whistler. The redhead nodded, then went at Deuce, bringing his left fist up toward Deuce's gut in his usual starting—and often finishing—move.
"Predictable," Deuce said as he blocked it with a meaty hand. He slapped Whistler hard across the face, sending the smaller boy reeling. "You're not worth my fists."
Whistler recovered and dove back into the fray, fists flying as he tried to land a hit on Deuce. A few punches landed, but most were blocked by the taller man's arms and fists.
"Spot—" Whistler began. Spot frowned, then pulled his gold-topped cane out its usual place in his suspenders. He rushed forward and swiped at Deuce's knees as Whistler jumped on their enemy's back as a distraction. It worked. Deuce shook himself, trying to dislodge the redheaded flea on his back, not noticing Spot until the younger boy had already knocked his legs out from under him. Whistler jumped clear as Deuce's large form fell to the ground, raising dust, then sat on the large man's stomach.
"Two on one—ain't fair—" Deuce panted.
"Since when did you ever play by the rules, Deuce?" Spot asked. "It was three on one when ya got Skipper, an' he was jus' a kid."
"Hey, that wasn' my idea!" Deuce said, trying to fib his way out of his predicament. "It was them that did it, I never ordered it!"
Whistler snorted. "I saw the whole thing, ye moron, I was jus' too far away t'do anythin'. I saw you clear as daylight pull a knife."
Deuce paled. "I swears I'll never come back here again if ya let me go this once," he said.
Spot nodded. Whistler got up off Deuce's chest and gave him a hand getting up.
"So help me," Whistler said. "'F you show up in Brooklyn one more time, I'll use my knife, not my fists. An' I don't need to be close to ya with a knife." Deuce nodded solemnly, then took off towards Queens.
"Think we've seen the end of him?" Whistler asked.
"Not a chance," Spot replied.